As The Years Go By
by Coral Acacia
Summary: Over and over as the years go by, Dean finds himself a victim of his father's grief and manipulation and rules. But he can deal with it, because this is what it takes to be a good son. This is what it takes to be a good brother. Isn't it? COMPLETE.
1. 1991-1992

**As The Years Go By**

* * *

 _November 2nd, 1991_

The motel they were staying in this week was musty, moldy. They'd had better.

Then again, they'd had worse, too.

"Who's that?" an eight year old Sam asked, pointing to the picture Dean was holding of a pretty blonde woman, clutching the arm of their father. The two boys were sprawled out on one of the beds on their stomachs, leafing through the box of memories that Dean kept hidden, saved for special occasions.

Today was November second. To him, that counted as occasion enough.

"You know who that is, Sammy," he told his brother, ruffling his hair. "That's Mom."

"She's pretty."

"Yeah. She was."

Sam rested his face in his hands so that both sides of his face smushed up, and then he said, "Tell me something about Mom, Dean. Was she like Dad?"

Dean laughed sadly, looking at the picture he was holding for a long while. _Christmas, 1982_ , it read on the back. Their last Christmas as a real family. "She was nothing like Dad, Sammy," he answered the younger boy at last. "Nothing at all."

John came home wasted, that night, and the first thing he saw was his two boys lying on the bed sorting through pictures of his dead wife, talking and laughing.

His vision went red with rage.

Dean saw his father coming before Sam did, and so he yanked his brother to the far edge of the bed. "Dad!" he cried. "Dad, stop it!" The man lunged at them again, clipping Dean across the jaw as the boy shoved Sam onto the floor behind him.

"Don't you boys dare laugh," John roared, gripping Dean by the collar and slamming him back into the wall. Sam scrambled out of the way to hide under the bed, confused tears streaming down his face.

The moment when you first see your father as a villain is always a confusing one.

When John paused his beating to reach for a new bottle of beer, Dean pulled Sam from under the bed and dragged them both to the bathroom, locking the door and sinking to the cold tile while outside, their father roared his anger and distress.

 _This is normal_ , Dean told himself. _He lost Mom. He's just still sad. We shouldn't have been laughing anyway_.

He rinsed the blood from his mouth and put freezing wet towels over his aches, attempting to stave off bruises; meanwhile, Sam sat on the floor, back against the rattling door, and cried and cried and cried.

When Dean had cleaned himself up he sat next to Sammy and let the younger boy climb into his lap, hugging his shirt for dear life and wetting his neck with more tears. "Were we bad, Dean?" the kid asked when their father finally fell silent. "Is that why Daddy's angry?"

Dean clenched his jaw. Never had he wanted to hurt someone more than he wanted to hurt John Winchester in that moment. "You haven't done anything wrong, Sam. Not a single thing. Dad's just… sad. And he's not very good at showing it."

He offered the younger boy some toilet paper to wipe his nose, and Sam sniffled as he accepted it. "Sorry I cried."

Dean bit his lip so hard he nearly broke the skin.

Did Dad really think he was raising them right, teaching them to accept responsibility for his actions, to survive on their own, to bottle up their emotions?

"It's okay," was all he said.

They fell asleep in the bathroom, Sam tucked up against Dean's side, and in the morning they left for school without waking John up.

Some things need time to settle, Dean had learned in his years with his dad.

And some things take a lot longer than others.

* * *

 _June 4th, 1992_

By December, Dean's bruises were completely gone. By January, John had cut back on the drinking. By February, Sam was back to hugging their father with pure delight after a day at school. By March, Dean had almost let himself forget it all. By April, everything felt normal. By May, he thought he might actually be happy.

And then June hit.

"There was this presentation in school today," Dean told his father as the older man leaned over the hood of the Impala, fixing a broken valve. "Someone came in to talk to us about how car companies design cars and build them, and how they were always looking for engineers who could think of new designs. Or stuff," he added, staring at his feet when his father didn't immediately respond.

John blew out a heavy breath. "You're thirteen, Dean. You can't even drive yet; I don't know what the hell you're thinking about designing cars for."

"I just thought," Dean said, trying to keep his voice steady (it's never easy to have someone crush your dreams), "you know, maybe in college."

At that, John slammed the hood of the Impala and turned towards his oldest son with an amused, if somewhat condescending, smirk on his face. "College? What the hell do you need college for?"

"Well, I wanted -"

John cut him off, stepping towards him threateningly until Dean was nearly pressed against the car to get away.

He thought about November.

"You listen here, boy," his father said then, taking a deep breath. "You and I, we have one purpose in life, and it's to find the thing that killed your mother. You don't need college for that. Understood?"

"But after -"

The sound of John's fist slamming into the roof of the car, right next to Dean's right ear, was deafening. "There are no buts," he said, menacingly calm. "This is the way the world works, and you will do what you are told because _I am your father_. Are we understood?"

Dean nodded, hands shaking. "Yes, sir."

He watched his father walk away, and when the shaking wouldn't stop, he clenched his hands into fists. It made him even angrier, even more _terrified_ , damn it, that this time - _this time_ \- John had not been drenched in grief or alcohol.

No, the man had been perfectly sober.

He had known exactly what he was doing.

* * *

 **A/N:** Something deep within me refuses to believe that there wasn't a time when Dean wanted to go to college. In other news, look, it's my first multi-chapter fanfic. I hope you didn't hate it but if you did that's cool; updates should be once a week, maybe sooner if you bribe me with encouragement, and hopefully the chapters will start getting longer.

 **Disclaimer:** Nothing belongs to me, and I'm not selling this, and it's just for entertainment purposes.


	2. 1993-1995

**A/N:** Wow okay thank you to everyone who followed or faved or reviewed... that was really really nice of you. And because I already have this chapter done, I figured there was no reason to wait. So. Here ya go, and I hope you like it.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own, I don't sell, please don't sue.

* * *

 _March 16th, 1993_

Dean Winchester was on the verge of sleep, long limbs curled into one of Bobby's old armchairs, when voices, sharp and angry, drifted under the door to the living room. He glanced over at Sam, only to find the ten-year old passed out on the nearby couch, mouth hanging open.

Before pressing his ear against the door, Dean made sure to stick a dirty spoon into his brother's mouth.

Some opportunities simply could not be passed up.

Then, he stood by the door, stock still and listening. "I just took them to the park, John," Bobby said in a rather defensive version of his cranky drawl. Dean smiled at the memory of tossing baseballs around in the early spring sun and tripping Sam into as many mud puddles as he could find.

"And they're my kids, not yours, Bobby," he heard his father fire back, drawing him quickly away from his pleasant memories. "I hope you aren't forgetting that."

"Well I hope you aren't forgetting that they're damn _kids_! You need to start treating them like it, not like they're your soldiers in this fool's chase that you're never going to win."

"I knew I should have just left them at a motel."

"Don't be like this, John. Don't. You still drinking?"

Dean held his breath, waiting to see if his father would tell the truth, would admit that, yeah, he had been drinking a lot as of late. It came in cycles, the desire to be fall down drunk, Dean supposed.

Nothing violent had happened since last November. Nothing more terrifying than a skinwalker had approached him since June.

Dean was beginning to wonder if he had simply imagined those entire frightful episodes.

"No," he dimly heard his father lie after a few moments of quiet. The teen grit his teeth.

If even a fourteen year old could identify when a _grown man_ needed help, then clearly something needed to be done.

And Dean wanted his dad to get help. He desperately wanted that.

But it wasn't likely to happen.

As night fell, Dean and Sam hugged Bobby around the middle, both smiling brightly before racing each other for the grand prize of shotgun. John trailed along behind, shaking hands with Bobby before sinking into the driver's seat.

Dean had, as older brothers always do, won the race, and so while Sam snoozed in the backseat he watched his father from the corner of his eye. This man sitting next to him didn't look capable of hurting his sons, of using his words to scare them.

So maybe it had all just been in Dean's head.

That had to be it.

* * *

 _August 10th, 1993_

The music in the Impala was cranked so loud against the Southern heat that Dean could feel the bass in his chest. He was tearing down the Louisiana highway, windows rolled down and Sammy in the passenger seat, drumming his hands on the steering wheel, and in this moment everything - anything - felt possible.

It was an unfamiliar feeling.

Their dad had left them at a motel and set out to spend the day investigating a djinn incident, and so Dean had convinced Sam that _of course_ a fourteen year old was capable of driving, and dragged him out to try it.

And now, here they were.

"I'm going to _die_ ," Sam screamed when Dean took a turn on two wheels, more or less. Dean laughed.

"Scared, Sammy?"

"Hell, yes."

"Watch your language, scrub."

"Sure, _Dad_."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

" _Language_ , Sam."

. . . .

Later, the two sat on a park bench licking at ice cream cones while the sun beat down on them, giddy smiles on their faces. "Dad's gonna kill you if he finds out," Sam said cheekily, offhandedly.

Dean's blood ran cold at the reminder as he forced a smile. "You wouldn't tell."

"Nah," Sammy promised as he took a bite out of his ice cream, smearing chocolate across his face. "If I told, we wouldn't get to do it again."

The older boy laughed, relief washing over him, and handed Sam a napkin, basking in the admiration that he saw in his little brother's eyes. At least _someone_ thought he was worth something around here. Not his teachers, who handed him back failing grades in nearly every subject at every school, and not his father, who was always pushing him to be a little faster, a little stronger.

But Sam thought he was a good big brother, he could tell.

And that was all he needed.

Slinging an arm around the younger boy's shoulders, Dean let out a happy sigh. "We're doing good, scrub," he said to Sam, ruffling his hair. "Killing monsters, eating good food, getting all the girls."

Sam scoffed, elbowing Dean in the ribs. "Sure, dork."

This was all Dean wanted.

. . . .

John never found out they had taken the Impala for a spin. When he got home, Sam was reading a trashy comic book and Dean was playing darts with some knives and the doorjamb.

Just like always.

* * *

 _February 12th, 1994_

Werewolves were notorious for their rancid breath. Dean Winchester, however, had not realized the truth of this statement until one had its hand around his throat in a death grip, his back pressed against a wooden support pole in the old barn he and Sam had been dragged to while John was out.

His fingers creeped slowly around to grasp to the knife he had tucked in between his belt loops that morning. "Just in case," he had said to Sam with a grin. Now, as the life was slowly choked out of him, he gripped the handle tightly and slashed the half-transformed mutant across the stomach. It howled and lost its grip.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figure of John Winchester creep in through the door of the barn, and Dean breathed a premature sigh of relief. His father would help him, surely.

Surely not. John was walking among the farm equipment and hay bales, frantically whispering Sam's name, all but ignoring his other son.

Dean's distraction allowed the werewolf to get a cheap shot in, swiping its claws across his cheek and snapping his head to the side. In retaliation, Dean slammed his silver blade into the monster's heart while it reared back for another shot; it dropped dead quickly and with a heavy thud.

"There was only the one, Dad," the fifteen year old called into the barn. John emerged a few minutes later with an arm around Sam's shoulder, and Dean had to fight back a wave of jealousy.

It didn't matter that his father didn't care for him like he cared for Sam. It didn't. Honestly.

"Clean kill, Dean," the man said with a look of approval when his eyes alighted on the dead werewolf. It was almost like the words _Good job_ or _I'm proud of you_ weren't in his vocabulary.

"Thank you, sir," Dean said anyway. Because this was high praise, from his father. "But is there a reason why couldn't you help me out before finding Sam? He was fine. I was _dying_."

John gave him a dark, assessing look that reminded Dean eerily of the first time his father had lashed out at him, the second time, the third time, each smaller than the last but still there, still containing that _look_. "I knew you could handle it," John answered him finally. "Don't whine. You know who whines, Dean?"

"Babies," the teen muttered under his breath before wiping his bloody knife on the leg of his jeans and pressing the corner of his flannel against his bleeding cheek. He turned his back to the werewolf's body and stalked to the door of the barn, only pausing at the entrance to quirk an eyebrow and ask, "Coming, Sammy?"

His brother flashed his teeth and darted toward him, the mad race for shotgun begun once again. John trailed along behind, and when Dean glanced back he let out an imperceptible sigh. He knew his father was doing the best that he knew how in order to raise them.

He knew he was trying, and so Dean thought maybe he should try a little more, too. Be a better son, do more of what his father asked of him.

John was only trying to find the thing that killed Mary and keep his boys safe in the process. Dean wanted that abomination dead, too.

He couldn't fault his father for that.

 _May 28th, 1995_

When Sonny walked through that doorway at the boys' home and told Dean that his father was here to pick him up, the young man had to close his eyes so that he didn't fall apart right there. Just when he had been on the verge of something good - even if it had been something as stupid as a high school dance - his father had to show up and ruin it.

He picked absently at the nice shirt he had dredged up from somewhere, then shuffled his feet.

When he glanced out the glass and into the fading twilight, he saw Sammy, leaning out the window of the car and holding an old model airplane that once, many years ago, had belonged to Dean. The sight of the younger boy, all patient and happy in the simplest of ways, made him regret his previous thought.

He already had something good.

And so Dean clenched his jaw and packed his bags, waving off Sonny's insistence that he could tell John to wait.

Dean knew his father wouldn't stand for that.

When he locked eyes with the man in question, leaning casually against the Impala, Dean found his thoughts dragged back to their most recent Christmas, when John had batted Dean against the wall when the younger boy would not stop asking if they could have a _real Christmas_ that year.

Now, he set his jaw and stared back at his father with steely resolve. He would be a good son. He _would_. He would show his father that he was worth something, that he could take orders, that he could take care of his brother.

He would _not_ be a screw up.

"Hey, Dean!" The kid gave him a huge smile and sailed his airplane at him. Dean dropped his bag to catch it and smiled back.

"You been good, Sammy?"

Sam nodded. Dean, meanwhile, turned to Sonny and gave him a firm handshake. _Thank you_ , he tried to tell the man silently, feeling his father's eyes on his every move. _For everything._

Sonny nodded his understanding. "See you around?"

"Sure thing."


	3. 1995-1997

**A/N:** Thanks again to everyone who's read or reviewed or followed! Sorry this chapter isn't as long but I hope you like it anyway :)

 **Disclaimer:** The characters aren't mine, I'm not selling this, and please don't sue me.

* * *

 _November 2nd, 1995_

As he did most November seconds, John Winchester came home drunk. For the first time, though, Dean was waiting for him, Sammy long asleep in one of the beds in the cheap motel they were staying in. "Dad," he said as soon as the man stumbled through the door, a half-empty beer bottle clutched in his hand. "You need to stop doing this."

John squinted at him and took an obstinate swig from his bottle. "Don't tell me what to do, boy," he growled after swishing the liquid around in his mouth and swallowing.

Dean knew that he was supposed to be trying to be a better son. That good sons didn't challenge the choices of their fathers. But this was _dangerous_. This was _harmful_. "Please, Dad. You need to stop drinking. Sammy doesn't like it when you -"

He had been staring at his beat up shoes, and so he didn't see the backhand until it hit his face. "Don't you talk back to me," his father growled as Dean's head snapped to the side, the blow sickeningly loud in the quiet room. "I'm a grown man, and I will make whatever decisions I damn well please."

The good son inside of Dean was yelling at him to keep his mouth shut and nod, to be obedient for once in his life.

But he couldn't. Not yet.

Not until he'd said this.

"Dad, the amount of alcohol you drink isn't healthy," he pleaded. "It's hurting us. It impairs your judgement when you hunt and it puts _all of us_ in danger. You have to understand that. Please."

He wished he could say that he was surprised when his father gripped his collar in one calloused fist and shoved him against the wall so hard that his teeth clacked together and sliced through a part of his tongue.

Dean tasted blood.

"How many times do I have to tell you," the man hissed, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath, "that _I am my own man_ , and _you are my son_. You will do what I say, and you will not question what I do. Am I understood?"

When Dean didn't immediately respond, his father slammed him into the wall again. "Don't get smart with me, boy. Answer me. You think your mother would have wanted this?"

The younger man's eyes clenched shut even tighter. Of course his mother wouldn't have wanted this. But she was dead, and there was no bringing her back.

"One more time now. Am. I. Understood?" John reiterated in low tones.

Dean nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry."

"Good."

John released his collar and stumbled into the bathroom, locking the door behind him while Dean sank to the floor and absently massaged his bruised cheek. When he looked over at the bed where Sam was, he couldn't tell if the painful thump in his chest was relief or disappointment.

Sammy hadn't woken up the entire time.

* * *

 _July 4th, 1996_

John was out of town for the Fourth of July weekend, trying to track a rogue nest of vampires that he claimed were "too dangerous" for the boys to help him handle. And so, they were left with a lot of time to kill and absolutely nothing to do.

"Hey," Dean said to Sam from one of the beds in this month's motel room when he felt sufficiently bored out of his skull. "You wanna get out of here?"

"Dad took the car, Dean, and it's hot as hell outside." The scrawny thirteen year old was lying shirtless on the other bed, reading a comic book and trying desperately to cool down in the triple digit heat.

Texas was not the place to be in July.

Dean, who was stretched out and fanning himself with a very pretty Mexican fan he had charmed off of a girl in Arizona, gave a derisive snort. "Don't be such a loser."

"Jerk." Sam threw a dirty sock at the other boy and crowed with laughter when it landed right on his face.

"Bitch. That's it. We're going out," Dean said with a halfhearted glare in Sam's direction. "You're too boring for your own good."

"I'm also your only friend."

" _Please_ don't remind me."

. . . .

Dean used his newly acquired driver's licence, which he had (narrowly) picked up when they passed through Kansas in January, to buy them enough fireworks to burn down an entire building, and then he and Sam walked to a lonely field right outside of town.

By the time they got there, Sam was sunburned and Dean was pretty sure he was about to faint from heat stroke, but the sun was just going down and he wanted to set up all of the rockets.

Sam, ever helpful, plopped down on the grass and lit himself a sparkler.

When it was at last well and truly dark and all of the fireworks were set, Dean stepped back to admire his work. All of the rockets were in a line, so to set them off, one only needed to light a long match and hurry to set each fuse as fast as possible.

With an excited nod from Sammy, Dean did just that.

The first bang surprised him a little, but it made Sam squeal in fright like a little girl. Dean missed seeing the explosion of colors because he was doubled over with laughter.

He righted himself quickly, though, and one by one, the fireworks went off until the boys were standing underneath the last glowing lights, empty embers raining down around them. "Best. Fourth of July. _Ever_ ," Sam said after a few moments in an awed voice that was at once authoritative and childish.

Dean smiled. This was what made all of it - the fighting, the hunting, the hurt - worth it: watching his brother grow up happy and strong.

One arm wrapped around his little brother's shoulders, he steered them back home.

* * *

 _September 30th, 1997_

"This could be huge."

John, Dean, and Sam were all gathered around the restaurant table, staring at a list of evidence that John had scribbled down over the past few weeks. "You really think you've found the thing that killed Mom?" Dean asked after a moment of heavy silence.

The older man shrugged and tapped the paper. "I don't know. All I know is what's right here. And I'm thinking right now that it points to a vengeful spirit."

"But who would want Mom dead?" This from Sam, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked over the list of evidence - _use of telekinesis, invisible, terrifying, powerful_ \- which was sparse, to say the least.

John shrugged again, running two hands through his hair in stress. "I get the impression," he said at last, "that there are a lot of things about your mother's past that she didn't mention to me."

"You mean you think she was a hunter?" Dean asked, a little awed at the idea.

"Anything is possible, frankly."

They finished their dinner in silence.

When Sam was asleep, deep in the dead of night, Dean and John were still sitting around the small table back at the motel, tossing ideas around, wondering what their next move should be. This could change everything. Then, out of nowhere, John said, "I need you to drop out of school."

Dean looked up quickly, surprised. So he wasn't that great at school, and he would never go to college or be anything other than a hunter.

But if he was being honest, he had kind of wanted that diploma with his name on it. Just to prove that he _could_ do it. That he was… that he was worth something.

"Things are starting to pick up, my joints are starting to slow down, and hunting is easier when you have someone to watch your back," John was saying. "I need you with me."

"Who's gonna watch out for Sammy at school?" Dean asked, thinking back to the incident a few weeks ago when he had watched someone try to beat Sam up - and then seen Sam flip the tables and turn that kid to pulp.

Dean didn't know if he wanted to protect him or keep him in check.

"He'll be fine," his father said dismissively. "He's fourteen now; he can take care of himself for a little while."

The younger man glanced over shoulder at his scrawny brother, fast asleep, and wondered if he had ever had time to be that young or if there had ever been a time when he _wasn't_ taking care of himself.

He suspected the answer was no.

Taking a deep breath to shove down his disappointment, Dean nodded. "I'll drop out, then, if that's what you need."

"Good. This is important work here. We can't afford to get distracted."

Dean bit back his words about Sammy being able to afford it, and instead simply nodded. This was what was being asked of him, and he would comply. Hunting, finding the thing that killed Mary, that was more important than him getting a stupid scrap of paper.

It was.

He repeated that to himself over and over until he believed it.


	4. 1998-2001

**A/N:** Still very amazed by how many of you have read, followed, or reviewed. Thank you very, very much. Also, look who updated quickly!

 **Disclaimer:** Yeah, still not trying to sell this. Still would prefer if you didn't sue me.

* * *

 _January 29th, 1998_

The house of the Kitsune was quiet when John and Dean crept in, knives in hand, only to find the monster dead on the floor, a knife already in her heart. "You did this, Sammy?" John asked, a proud smile already forming on his face.

The boy in question hesitated for a moment before nodding vigorously. "Yes. Of course. I caught her unawares, and so I… I killed her."

As John enveloped the boy in a proud hug, Dean surveyed the house. It was very unlike Sam to voluntarily kill something; he supposed there could be a first time for everything, though.

Then he saw the picture on the mantelpiece, featuring the woman who was currently dead on the floor, and a younger girl, about Sam's age, and things clicked a little better.

He turned the picture face down so that John wouldn't see it.

. . . .

"So when you were asking me about girls, earlier," Dean said to his little brother from the backseat as they waited in the car that night for John to buy their dinner from a convenience store, "you were asking about that Kitsune girl, the younger one."

Sam's head snapped around to face Dean fast enough that he probably got whiplash. "How did you know about that?"

Dean gave a lazy shrug. "I saw their picture on the mantelpiece and extrapolated from there."

The younger boy's lips set into a thin line. "Don't tell Dad. She wasn't a monster, Dean. She was just a girl. I couldn't kill her. She killed her own mother to _protect_ me."

"She's still a killer, Sam. She may not be killing humans now, but one day she will. Once a monster, always a monster. You can't let them fool you."

"You're wrong," Sam said obstinately. "She just wanted to be left alone."

Dean searched his brother's face, then shook his head in disbelief. "You really liked her, huh?"

Sam's cheeks flushed. "None of your business."

"Sure. How far'd you get?"

Sam glared for a little while, then grudgingly admitted, "We kissed."

The older boy let out a low whistle as he watched their father walk out of the convenience store, grocery bags in hand. "Little Sammy, kissing monsters," he said. "You better be careful, kid. I don't want to have to clean up your messes."

 _I don't want to have to get between you and Dad. I don't want to have to protect you from him. I don't want to see him hurt you because of this._

"It was one time, Dean."

As John opened the door and dropped the bags onto the center console, Dean muttered to himself, "That's what they all say."

He curled up in the backseat and ate his pie in silence.

* * *

 _August 21st, 1999_

Tonight the boys were driving down an empty road, the stars in front of them and a big city behind them, killing time and chasing freedom. "Remember that time we stole the Impala for a day and got ice cream, back before you could drive?" Sam said suddenly into the silence.

Dean nodded. "August of '93. I was fourteen, and you were ten." He looked over at his brother. "Man, where do the years go? You're gonna be a junior this year, I'm twenty, and it still seems like just yesterday we were shoving legos into the vents and carving our initials into the side of the car." Dean sighed. "Sometimes it feels like we grew up too fast."

Sam laughed ruefully from the passenger seat. "Hell yeah, we did. Thanks to Dad, at least."

The older boy's head turned sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Dean, he handed us .45's when we told him we were scared of the dark. He's been after whatever killed Mom for as long as I can remember; he made you drop out of school to join him -"

"That was my choice."

Sam did not look convinced, and to be honest, Dean wasn't quite convinced with himself, either. "He's a hard ass, Dean, and you know it. I don't know why you're so intent on defending him."

"Because he's doing his best." It had been nearly four years since his father last hit him, and Dean really believed that the man was trying to do better by them. That he was just trying to protect them.

"And if his best isn't good enough?"

"It has to be. I mean, look at us. We've turned out alright, haven't we?"

The younger brother gave a rueful, bitter laugh and shook his head. "As alright as possible, I suppose. I just wish he had taken more time to be a father, to let us do what we wanted."

"Hunting is important," Dean defended. As the years had passed, John had begun to treat him more and more like an equal when it came to decision making and planning, and hunting slowly felt less like a chore and more like something he could maybe devote himself to, now.

The sad look on Sam's face tore at him, though. "But it's not what I want," Sammy said quietly, looking out the window.

Dean didn't quite know how to respond to that, and so he let it sit between them as they raced down the road, headed toward a future neither of them could predict.

* * *

 _April 31st, 2000_

"Sammy!" John Winchester was standing in the doorway of this month's motel room, feet tapping anxiously against the floorboards as he waited for his youngest son. Dean, meanwhile, was throwing some last pieces of gear into the Impala.

After a few more moments of waiting, John made his way to Dean, eyebrows knit close together in frustration. "Go drag your half-wit of a brother away from that desk," John growled, "or so help me I am going to _murder_ someone. The vamps are probably packing up and heading out as we speak."

Nodding obediently, Dean retreated to the room, where he found Sam sitting at the desk, textbooks spread out in front of him with his back to the door. "Hey, kid," Dean said, "we gotta go. Dad's getting all fired up."

"I'm studying, Dean," Sam shot back, scribbling something else down in a notebook that Dean highly suspected had been nicked from someone's backpack.

John Winchester was not one to pay for school supplies.

"You two can handle it," the younger boy continued, waving his hand dismissively.

Dean ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "No, man. Dad specifically said that this is a job for _three_. We need you."

"And I'm studying," Sam shot back, standing to face his brother. "Just leave me the hell alone, will you? I didn't ask for any part in this."

"Yeah?" Dean's voice was rising of its own accord. "Well guess what, short round? _None of us_ asked for any part in this; that chance was taken away from us the moment we watched Mom burn to death on the ceiling of your bedroom! So screw your studying, and get your ass to the car before I _drag it there_."

"No, alright? No. It's junior year, and if I fail these exams, everything goes downhill. I might not even get into -" Sam halted suddenly in the middle of his tirade, a guilt-stricken look crossing his face, while across the room from him, Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Not get into _what_ , Sammy?" he asked in a low voice, approaching the desk.

Sam's eyes darted to an unassuming textbook stuffed full of papers, and when Dean flipped open the front cover, he didn't try to stop him, simply shutting his eyes in defeat.

 _University of Stanford Application_ , read the paper at the top of the pile in bright red ink. Dean had to read it twice to comprehend it, and then he felt his heart stop as the meaning sank in. "You're applying to Stanford?" he asked after a few moments of painful silence, trying to work around the lump of sudden emotion in his throat.

Sam nodded shortly, eyes on the floor and arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the desk, looking like he wanted nothing more than to curl all six feet of himself into a small circle of nonexistence.

Biting his lip as he gripped the back of the chair, Dean managed to say, "Were you even going to tell me?" A single tear slipped down his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam replied quietly, turning away, and that was as good as a no. No, he wouldn't have told him. He would have just packed his bags one day and left, not even bothering to say goodbye. "You know how Dad feels about college -" the younger boy tried to explain, but Dean just shook his head and cleared his throat.

"If that's how you really feel," he said, "then don't bother to explain." Scrubbing at his damp cheeks, he turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Looks like this was going to be a two person job, after all.

* * *

 _May 1st, 2001_

Months later, Dean found Sam in one of the bedrooms at Bobby's house, which they were watching while the man was out hunting. Sam was throwing clothes into a suitcase; on the bed next to the younger boy was a letter, crumpled and stained with tears of disbelief.

The past year had been a tense one, Dean torn between honoring his father's wishes and only wanting what would make Sam the happiest. The two brothers hadn't talked much, and had talked even less about college.

In the dead of night, Dean envied Sam for having the courage to do this. In the light of day, though, all he felt was wounded, like he had been caught unawares by a blinding spotlight in front of a thousand people.

He wasn't ready for his baby brother to be making his own decisions, much less ones that were contrary to everything they had been raised to do.

"So you got in," Dean said from the doorway after a few minutes.

"Yeah."

"Is there a reason you're leaving so soon?" He tried to say it casually, but his voice cracked in the middle and he had to clear his throat.

Even after a year of coming to terms with things, well… he still _hadn't._

Sam sighed and straightened, finally turning around to look Dean in the eye. "Dad is going to tan my hide when he finds out that I even _applied_ to college, much less got accepted. I had to skim seventy dollars just to apply, and that's not even the worst of it. Figured I should get out sooner rather than later."

Dean tilted his head. "Yeah. How _are_ you planning to pay for this?"

"Financial aid. Got a full ride scholarship for academics."

He could see that Sam was proud of himself. He _wanted_ Sam to be proud of himself. Hell, Dean was really proud of him, too.

He just didn't know how to admit that without feeling like he was betraying his father.

Shoving his hands deep in his pockets, he made his way back down the stairs, heart beating slow with sadness the whole way.

. . . .

It was about ten o'clock that night when the yelling started in the sitting room. Dean was reading a book at the kitchen table, from where he could see his father and Sam having the fight of their lives.

"I just wanted a normal life, Dad! Is that really such a crime?" Sam yelled.

"You expressly defied my wishes and you know it! I _specifically_ told you that college was not an option, and still you chose to disobey me," their father bit back at his youngest son, rage emanating from his every pore.

Dean hadn't turned a page in three minutes.

"Well maybe some of us aren't obsessed with finding mystical murderers, Dad, and you're just going to have to deal with that. You've got Dean to be your perfect soldier, anyway; what do you need me for?"

At the sound of his name, Dean felt his heart lurch. It was true. He was his father's perfect soldier, now. Nothing more.

Regret was a tidal wave, and he had no idea how to swim.

"You listen to me, Sam Winchester," John said after a few moments of tense silence. "If you walk out that door to go to college, don't you _ever_ come back. Understood?"

Dean was torn, between wanting his brother to drop his bags and stay, and wanting Sam to be the one who was able to escape this life. Wanting Sam to be happy.

The decision was made for him when Sam resolutely picked up his duffel and slung his backpack over his shoulder before walking to the door. There, he paused and glanced back at Dean, apology and regret and hope written all over his face.

But betrayal and envy, monsters fiercer than anything Dean had ever faced before, were welling up in his chest and clawing at his heart, and so he decisively turned away, eyes set firmly back on his book.

A few seconds later, the door slammed shut.

Now Sam was free, and Dean was still a soldier.

Just like always.


	5. 2002

**A/N:** Eyyy thank you so much to those of you who are still reading and reviewing! I would love to hear what you think. One more chapter to go after this...

 **Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

 _January 24th, 2002_

Dean Winchester's twenty third birthday was nothing at all like he expected it to be. For starters, he sure hadn't thought he would be spending it in a sad, quiet bar all by himself, knocking back shots of whiskey like they were cups of water.

He was going for a fifth round when a small, feminine hand placed itself over his glass, keeping it firmly on the counter top. "That's enough for you, I think," said the pretty girl behind the counter, skin dark as night and hair wild with curls.

"Some bartender you are," Dean grumbled in response, trying to nudge her hand off of his glass and then grabbing for it when she took it away completely.

The girl proceeded to dump his drink down the drain, despite his protests, then placed the empty glass back on the counter in front of him. "So what's got you drinking yourself into a pre-midlife crisis tonight, buster?" she asked with a half-smile, leaning her elbows on the counter and locking eyes with him.

Drunk Dean, much to Sober Dean's chagrin, had never been very good at keeping secrets. "My little brother's halfway across the country," he found himself admitting, "and I miss him like hell."

She pulled a sympathetic face. "College?"

"Yeah."

"How about you?"

"How about me what?" Drunk Dean was also not great at following conversations.

The girl just laughed, though, light and airy. "How about you, as in, are you in college?"

"Ah," he said with a self-deprecating smile, "nah. Not for me. I excel at some more practical things."

"Such as?"

Dean gave her a winning smile. (Or, at least, what his drunk self was most certain amounted to a winning smile.) "Give me a few hours and I'd be happy to show you."

The girl rolled her eyes. "And why would I do that?"

"Because it's my birthday."

"Mhm. And I'm your present. Sure." When Dean didn't seem to pick up on her sarcasm, she added, " _Hell no_ , man. I'm really not into casual relationships, and I'm nobody's prize." She gave a sardonic little laugh and added, "I don't even know your name."

"Dean Winchester," he helpfully supplied. "You?"

She tilted her head, considered him for a moment, then said, "Cassie Robinson. Call me when you're sober." She slid a napkin with her number across the counter to him, eyebrows arched and mouth almost-smiling like this was some kind of challenge, and then she walked off to fill someone else's order.

And though Drunk Dean often made stupid decisions, tonight Drunk Dean did something very smart, for once: he folded the napkin up, tucked it into his jacket pocket, and didn't take it out until the next morning.

* * *

 _March 2nd, 2002_

Dean wasn't fond of Athens, Ohio. It smelled, for one, and for another, it was teeming with college kids (i.e., frat boys and sorority girls). His stay there was supposed to have been simple, a quick, routine salt-and-burn to make sure the local college campus stayed safe while John dealt with bigger problems in Indiana.

But in between visiting the library and the morgue and the town hospital, Dean suddenly found himself otherwise occupied: Cassie loved going to book stores to hunt for first edition books. She loved watching ice hockey games, and talking about her family, and drinking lemonade from Frosty's Diner despite the twenty degree weather.

And slowly, Dean found himself loving to do those things with her.

Every time his father called, he made up an excuse: the ghost had mutated. It wasn't what they originally thought; anything to buy him a little more time, even though he had killed the monster nearly a month ago by the time March came around.

"Alright, Dean," John said one night over the phone. "I know you've finished this job by now. What are you hiding?"

After a few beats of silence, the young man let out a weak, "Nothing. Why would I be hiding anything?"

"Because you're not this slow, boy," John said. "Just tell me. What's making you want to stay?"

Dean bit his lip and stared hard at the floor of his motel room before admitting, "I met a girl, Dad."

There was a heavy sigh, then a pause, followed by, "Dean, we talked about this when you turned sixteen. I _never_ want to hear about your sex life -"

"It's more than that," he interjected, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes. Hell, he missed Sam. Sam would listen. Sam would get this, understand all of these mushy feelings that were turning Dean completely inside out for the first time in his life. "I think I'm in love with her."

The laugh on the other end of the line was barely stifled, and Dean bit his lip even harder, digging the toe of his boot into the floor. He knew he should have just made something up. Something not so close to what he cared about.

 _Who_ he cared about.

"Just hurry your ass up out here to Indiana," John was saying. "I could use the help, especially since all you're doing is lollygagging about over some girl."

Dean didn't know how to say no, and so he said yes.

* * *

 _March 3rd, 2002_

She was ten stacks deep at the local library, him trailing behind, when he decided that he had to tell her sooner, rather than later.

"Cassie," he said quietly, and when she turned around with that smile, that one smile that only he got to see, his heart broke a little. "Listen, my job moves around a lot, and I've been told I gotta go…"

Cassie looked about as unimpressed with this statement as she had with him propositioning her the first time they met. "You're breaking up with me?" she asked dryly, one hand absently reaching to pluck one of the books she needed from a shelf.

"No. I mean, if you want to. The thing is, I'm always moving. It makes things… hard to keep up. Relationship-wise. But I want to. Keep things up, I mean, with you. If that's okay. If that's what you want."

She smiled that beautiful smile again and bumped her shoulder with his before standing on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. "I'll save you a glass of Frosty's lemonade."

To Dean, that was as good a promise as any.

* * *

 _July 30th, 2002_

On his weekends off for the next few months, Dean drove however many miles it took to make it back to Athens. Every time, there was a glass of Frosty's waiting for him.

"Wasn't there a time when you wanted to go to college?" Cassie whispered to him one beautiful clear July night when they were lying on the hood of the Impala, watching the stars from a grassy field on the outskirts of town.

Dean made a noncommittal noise. "It was a long time ago."

"What did you want to study?"

"Cars. Engineering. It was stupid."

Cassie turned her face to the side to look at him. "That's not stupid. That's cool. Why'd you give it up?"

He sighed. "Family business was more important, and my dad's not… a big proponent of college."

"But your brother went."

"Yeah. And neither of us have talked to him since he left. So."

She snorted and turned her eyes back to the stars. "Sounds like maybe you should start making some decisions for yourself, Dean." He kissed her shoulder and grumbled that he was but she shook her head. "No, I mean, really. You've given up your dreams for your dad. You've given up your _brother_ for him. I'm not saying you need to stage a full-scale rebellion, but… just take care of yourself, will you? Do something for you."

Dean sighed in response, resting his ear over her heart and watching the sky move slowly as he turned her words over and over and over in his mind. "How did a dumb guy like me end up with such an amazing girl like you?" he finally breathed into the space between her neck and her shoulder.

"You're not dumb," she chastised gently, tilting his face up to kiss him, sweet and slow. "And I believe in miracles. Don't you?"

* * *

 _October 12th, 2002_

It was a brutally cold Saturday.

The two of them were sitting in the Impala, quiet, Dean's phone in his lap as frigid air blew in through the vents. John had just called to berate him torrentially for not being around when the older man needed him, and in light of the ensuing conversation (read: fight) between father and son, neither of the young adults really knew what to say.

"You never did tell me what the family business was," Cassie said in a quiet sort of voice after several minutes of smoothing her fingers over his knuckles, back and forth and back and forth.

"It's horrifying," Dean told her honestly after a long moment of deliberation. "You'll run the other way."

"Oh, come on," she shot back lightly, "it can't be too bad. What is it, candle-making? Bouquet-arranging?"

"Monster hunting," he said quietly, before he could lose his nerve, and she laughed.

"Sorry, I thought you said monster hunting."

"I did." He was staring at the steering wheel, the dashboard, anywhere but at her. He didn't want to know how she'd react. He didn't want to watch her face as it fell apart, like he knew it would.

"You really expect me to believe that?" she finally asked, voice smaller than any sound he'd ever heard before. "Dean, you know how I feel about liars."

He did. He did, and because of that, some part of him had known that they were doomed from the beginning.

How does a boy with the most unbelievable job in the world keep a girlfriend whose greatest fear is being lied to, being cheated on, being made the fool?

"I'm not lying, I promise you," he pleaded. "It's real."

"But that's just… it's unbelievable. And… Lord. You know what, I don't know if I can do this. You almost never being around anymore, and then saying it's because you _hunt monsters_ , and your dad always ragging on you about me… I just don't know if I can do this," she repeated.

Dean white-knuckled the steering wheel as he watched his happiness, his one slice of joy, his only chance at a real life, slip away. "Please, Cassie," he said. "I need you."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I wanted this to work. I did. But this is just…" She shook her head and got out of the car, backpack slung over her shoulder. "Don't call me, Dean," she said, and then she slammed the door shut and walked away.

. . . .

He called her, of course. Day and night, all the way to meet John in Maine. Each call went straight to voicemail, though, until at last he gave up and hurled his phone against the dashboard, feeling only slightly satisfied as the screen cracked and broke into pieces.

The drive was lonely.

Every time he glanced at the passenger seat, Dean thought of her. Of holding her hand as she cried about finals and watching the stars in the summer. Of drinking Frosty's lemonade and skipping stones across the surface of the campus fountain. Of crashing a frat party one weekend, just because they could.

And then when he had exhausted all of his memories of Cassie, Dean thought about Sam. About racing down the highway at fourteen, no idea how to drive or where to go. About the nights they had spent laughing, side by side, while they waited for John to come home.

Dean thought a lot about the people he had lost, on the way to Maine.

The drive was lonely.


	6. 2003-2005

**A/N:** Here we go. The final chapter.

* * *

 _February 3rd, 2003_

In the months after Cassie left him, Dean could not stop hearing the things she'd said to him. It was as though they were on repeat in his mind, a cassette tape with no endpoint, hell-bent on haunting him forever. _Do something for you_ , she'd said. _You've given up your dreams for your dad. You've given up your_ brother _for him._

And when Dean thought about it, really thought about it, he realized that he had: he had given up college, high school, being a kid, all so that he could fly under the radar of his father's anger and keep Sammy safe and happy.

And then he'd had to give that up, too.

Months of back and forth, months of a torn conscience, finally led Dean to this final point: standing, shivering, in front of Lawrence City High School at age twenty four, about to take a final exam and get his GED.

It wasn't a lot. In the long run, it wouldn't mean anything career-wise, and it wouldn't change the way he lived his life.

But it was something for him.

And that was enough.

* * *

 _March 3rd, 2003_

When he drove back down to Lawrence, one month later, to collect his scores, Dean tore open the envelope eagerly, skimmed the papers, and smiled. He had passed with a 92 percent.

His smile dimmed a little when he thought about showing it to Sam, about how he wanted so badly to be able to do that. He wanted his little brother to be proud of him, too. But he couldn't call him, couldn't text him, couldn't go see him.

In a fit of anger the night Sam left for college, Dean had deleted Sam's contact from his phone.

He was too prideful to ask for it back from anyone.

Now, he folded the papers up and put them in his pocket, determined not to let the joy of his success be brought down by the circumstances. He had done this. _He_ had done this. For himself.

And damn, it felt good to know that he was capable of something, anything other than killing.

* * *

 _2004_

Dean worried about John, often, in the year that followed. In other years, the older man had been fixated on finding whatever killed Mary and destroyed their lives, true, but not to this extent. John wasn't sleeping, was barely eating, was scribbling frantic notes on every pad of motel stationery that he could find.

One night, deep in the throes of a snowy January, John raised his fist against Dean for the first time in nearly a decade when the younger man told him to take a break, to slow down. The older man paused before the blow could hit, though, leaving his fist frozen in midair.

Abuse is harder when your victim can look you in the eyes, it turns out.

Dean hunted on his own more often, staying away for up to three weeks at a time. The independence was liberating; for once, he was doing things his own way, developing his own style, loving his job.

Underneath, though, there was still all of the hurt. Always the hurt.

Always the feeling that he had failed Sam in one way or another, not taking care of him well enough or in the way he deserved. Always the worry that he would never see his brother again, never talk to him about stupid things on another summer day, never argue with him one more time.

There was always, always, always the hurt.

And so John worked and drank himself into a fierce mania, and Dean worked and drank himself into almost forgetting, each slowly letting the year ebb and flow itself away as they criss-crossed the country.

By the end of the year, Dean realized that they were hunting for distractions more than they were hunting for monsters.

Because it never gets easier, missing the people you love.

And the Winchesters knew that better than anyone.

* * *

 _September 13th, 2005_

When he discovered that John had gone missing - no note, no voicemail, nothing - , just as the Kansas leaves were turning golden and starting to fall, it took Dean less than a minute to throw a bag in the car and start burning rubber all the way to California.

He had to spend the entire drive listening to Metallica.

Upon his arrival, it took him a precious hour of near-frantic searching to track down someone on the Stanford campus who knew Sam. Then, he had to convince them that yes, he really was his brother and yes, this really was a family emergency.

The apartment building he was sent to, in the end, was decent, and Dean wondered, as he climbed out of the Impala and slammed the door, if maybe Sam was doing well. If maybe he had built himself a better life than the one he left behind.

That thought hurt more than it should have.

The back door was unlocked - _careless mistake_ \- so the tall young man slipped in and started up the stairs, entrenched in darkness. When Sam came at him - _still on his guard, that's good_ -, Dean blocked and hit and struck in all the ways that he knew wouldn't hurt until he, never one to be bested, had Sam flat on his back on the floor.

"Whoa, easy tiger," he said with a half-smile, peace drifting through him despite the circumstances. Or maybe because of the circumstances. He couldn't tell; all he knew in that moment was that he had his brother back.

He had him back.

After all of the heartbreak and the laughter and the pain and the adrenaline rush that was the past four years and every moment they had had together before that, they were together again. Dean felt unstoppable.

He felt home.

"Dean?" Sam asked, incredulous and on the verge of laughter.

The older boy cracked a full grin and flicked his brother's cheek. "Miss me?"

 _Because I missed you._

 _Fin_

* * *

"So what's it all add up to? It's hard to say. But me, I'd say this was a test... for Sam and Dean. And I think they did all right. Up against good, evil… they made their own choice. They chose family. And, well... isn't that kinda the whole point? No doubt - endings are hard. But then again... nothing ever really ends, does it?" - _Chuck Shurley,_ "Swan Song"

* * *

 **A/N:** September 13th, 2005, is the first time that the Supernatural Pilot episode aired. In other news, so many thank yous go out to all of you - for reading, for reviewing, for encouraging. You have no idea how much it means to me, and I hope that in some way, this story was able to mean something to you. It's been cool, guys. Until next time.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters and any of the canonical stuff in here. I just took what the writers gave us and ran with it. In conclusion, please don't sue me, for I am poor.


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